


coda1.8_0cc4ms-r4z0r.cfg

by bluesyturtle



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Coda, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Episode Related, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Mindfuck, Missing Scene, Season/Series 01, Sex in a Car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/pseuds/bluesyturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This is Tyrell’s. Why were we in there?” </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best one.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> There's a chance this should be explicit and not mature. Just read the tags and use your judgment.

Tyrell studies the code where it blossoms on the monitor, remembering that he’d done as much when he first met Elliot. Looked over his shoulder and peered at his setup, admired it, dissected it. Or he thought so, just like he thought Elliot truly meant to hide himself behind a docile smile and obsequious humility. That was when Tyrell thought he had all the answers. When he thought Elliot was brilliant but damaged, and oh, he is. He is damaged.

But Tyrell also thought himself better than human, and he was wrong about that, too. Wrong, and right.

Turns out, it isn’t always the worst thing to be wrong. Flawed, fallible, fragile, though they are, they still drove this incredible hack into being. They’re still here, both of them.

Elliot is as naive as he is cunning. As unyielding as he is perpetually on the verge of shattering.

“Get up.”

He knows the gun is there before he sees it somehow. In one of those hackle-raising, hindbrain occurrences, he detects the change in Elliot’s voice and tastes the heaviness that fills the air. This shift of Elliot’s from demure, unseasonal breeze to unstoppable monsoon is no novelty to him any longer, not after the first time he saw it.

One can marvel at the storm breaking over the hills forever and never understand it, but Tyrell, a student of power, doesn’t fear a mysterious element once he comes to expect it.

And Elliot, for all the power that he has at his fingertips, is anything but subtle.

“Get up,” he says again.

Tyrell can hear that he won’t be made to issue the demand a third time, so he stands.

Violence makes sense to Tyrell. For most of his life, he has been weak for the impulses of his body. Anger inhabits his core, a counterweight to his fragile temper and will alike. Tempests and forest fires make sense to Tyrell. Destruction and suffering make sense to him.

Elliot’s calm bewilders and unsettles, his mind working to solve the ever-changing equation that Elliot presents. Blank eyes, steady hands, dull words. Tyrell’s name in his mouth. 

“Let’s go.”

He doesn’t ask where. Elliot doesn’t say and he doesn’t put down the gun. Tyrell won’t try to take it from him. His heart rate climbs beneath canyons of flesh and bone, sending his blood into a wild rush that scatters his thoughts. It’s exciting and jarring, and Tyrell can’t shake the feeling that he’s trapped in a lucid dream.

They walk out to Tyrell’s SUV, cast in total darkness by the building’s shadow. Elliot gestures with the gun for him to get in behind the wheel. A dilapidated Ferris Wheel creaks some yards away, adding more to the surreality of it all.

One coherent idea breaks through the chaos: _We’re supposed to be partners, you and I._

But he can’t waste time wondering about betrayal and well-laid plans. Elliot climbs into the backseat and presses the muzzle of the gun to Tyrell’s side. Tyrell shifts in his seat and starts the car, belatedly fastening his seatbelt as he shifts into reverse.

To struggle would only upset their tenuous imbalance and get Tyrell shot. It’s easy to follow anyway. Easier still to keep his mouth shut. Elliot needs his compliance—not explanations, not questions. Regardless of the gun pointed at his liver, Tyrell would still go wherever Elliot chooses to steer him. He could concede to Joanna and surrender to her if need be. To do these things for Elliot is second nature.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Elliot observes at a red light. His voice, commonly heavy and lusterless like wood or scuffed marble, lilts in odd places like there is a joke waiting in the rests of his syllables. “Nothing for you to break.”

“We’ve broken quite a lot in one night.”

Pride swells in Tyrell’s chest when his voice comes out even. There’s a thoughtful hum behind him and soft metallic tinkling. Elliot is fiddling idly with the hammer of the gun. 

“We could break more.”

“Oh?”

The traffic signal flashes green, so Tyrell diverts his attention to the road. Opening up this line of communication calms his nerves some. Elliot shuffles in the backseat, his movements difficult to trace from the rearview mirror. They pull onto the interstate and Tyrell merges into a middle lane as instructed. Gradually, the gun eases out of the groove dividing two of his ribs.

Elliot jostles the back of Tyrell’s seat before removing the gun altogether from his side. There’s rustling and then a few moments of quiet.

“Why you, then?”

Tyrell glances briefly over his shoulder, too short a glimpse to see anything but the dark shape Elliot paints sprawled out on the back seats. Elliot nudges higher up on the back of Tyrell’s seat, pointed little kicks with the heel of his foot. Perfectly, casually obnoxious, like it’s his right to lounge about and get the answers he wants when he asks for them. 

“What do you mean, why me?”

Elliot perches his foot on the center console. The shadows climb and sink with their seemingly slow crawl along the interstate. Tyrell can’t look back often, lest he drift out of his lane or send them careening across the median onto the opposite track. He looks more than he should, though, and he meets no chastisement for it.

“What do I mean?” Elliot parrots, the tenor of his voice fading and going hollow. Louder, livelier, he muses, “What _I_ mean?” Under his breath, not for Tyrell, he says, “Not what anyone thinks.”

He laughs to himself, hearing yet another joke that Tyrell doesn’t. 

Cautious, unnerved again, Tyrell murmurs, “I don’t think we’re on the same page here, Elliot.”

“Depends on the context.” He waves his hand vaguely as he speaks—half-seen in the mirror but engulfed in shadows. “Pages in a book or pages of code; separate or continuous; ephemeral or digitized.”

Tyrell squints at the road illuminated by his headlights. He isn’t afraid. There would be no point.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why me?” Tyrell repeats, perplexed. 

Under different circumstances, or he supposes, under these circumstances—and if he were someone else—he would ask this question not with confusion but with desperation. Pleading and bargaining for mercy, to be let go. But Tyrell doesn’t want that. Elliot threatening to harm him, to kill him, is its own kind of exhilaration.

This uncertainty, this anticipation, is not unlike what he felt with Sharon Knowles seizing under the weight of his palm. Tyrell’s hammering heartbeat sings a melody so near in key and tempo to the pulse he’d felt in her neck. It’s the selfsame drum that pounded into the arches of his fingers before he pressed down, held tight, and squeezed.

That long instant where his body knew before his mind did that he was killing her is the sole answer to which he keeps returning, but Elliot knows that already. Tyrell told him about power, murder, his lethal hands, and his featherlight heart that doesn’t ache for guilt but which quickens all the same for Elliot. Whether he has a gun trained on him or not (and he might, for all that Tyrell hasn’t had a solid look at him since they got in the car), Elliot has that effect on him.

Elliot gets his heart and his mind racing. Elliot jams the frequencies that usually keep the two indelibly synchronized. Elliot scrambles those airwaves such that Tyrell couldn’t piece himself back together even if he wanted to.

But Tyrell doesn’t want to. Elliot captivates in the most complete sense of the word. He ensorcels, he binds, he consumes, and Tyrell…

Tyrell…

“Take this exit.”

Boredom lines Elliot’s voice. The edges of his words are singed with impatience, and that tension sets Tyrell’s teeth on edge. He’s taken too long to come up with an answer. This frustration, this perceived impotence, Tyrell is familiar with.

It’s like Elliot said. There’s nothing for him to break. No way for him to process or express what he feels that wouldn’t result in mangled metal, and a collision would probably kill Elliot since he’s not wearing his seatbelt. Yet he still speaks and reclines with the lazy, careless demeanor of a king. So reckless with his life, so heedlessly trusting that Tyrell won’t swerve or crash just to spite him or to wrest back control of the situation.

Tyrell has never known anyone who could be calm and cruel simultaneously. He has seen smirking CEOs ending livelihoods and he has seen his enemies smug about ensuring his downfall and he has seen himself panicked, nauseous, dizzy with adrenaline and fear. Violence and cruelty and unchecked emotion are not unknown quantities where Tyrell is concerned.

The leonine quality that Elliot has to him, however, is like nothing Tyrell’s encountered. Like nothing he’s capable of possessing or embodying.

He wants to sink his teeth into it hard enough to make his gums bleed, and he wants to claw at it until his nails give way and collapse down to the root. He wants to turn this confused net of longing that he has for Elliot into something he understands. Something easily burnt up and extinguished by the strength of its own flame.

He wants.

Heaven help him, but that’s it, he realizes, swinging his gaze around to Elliot. He pins him down with his stare and sees, now that he can look longer without risking an accident, that Elliot’s watching him, too.

He doesn’t look like himself. The lines of his face have become severe and his eyes, focused. Tyrell sees those wide, disbelieving eyes narrow; sees Elliot’s head list slightly to one side in consideration. His concentration shifts back to the road before them, the cracked asphalt hardly roughening their ride at all. Tyrell swallows hard and watches Elliot in the mirror more than he does the streets, taking them slowly since he has no earthly reason to go faster.

Still no answer has been forthcoming from his lips, but Elliot doesn’t appear to need one anymore. Just like with the gun, Tyrell doesn’t see the look on Elliot’s face when he figures it out, when he decides how to proceed. His inability to see it doesn’t stop him from feeling the change in the air.

It isn’t surprising to him that he wants Elliot. He’s known that he wants Elliot, but to have the rest of it funneled into that one neatly packaged desire almost overwhelms him.

“Up there,” Elliot tells him, starting to sit up. “Just up there.”

“Is this where you plan to dump my body, Elliot?” Tyrell asks, not for boldness but for wry indifference.

“Don’t sound so excited. Pull through here.”

It’s a warehouse, but of course it’s a warehouse. Where there once was, ostensibly, some kind of garage door, now there is only an unsightly hole in one of the walls. Tyrell parks the car and kills the engine, leaving them in pitch black quiet together. He casts around with his eyes, trying to spot a potential threat or ally or bystander, but there is no one. It’s only them.

Tyrell has held his peace and been discovered anyway. Elliot can kill him with the twitch of a finger. Has been able to do so for the past hour—for much longer than that, really, what with the right series of keystrokes being just as effective, if not more so, than a trigger.

He swivels around to look over his shoulder. Elliot’s got his feet planted under him, his elbows on his leisurely splayed knees, and his cheek resting on the headrest in front of him. His big eyes look sleepy, on the cusp of closing but totally, unequivocally alert. Watching, assessing. There’s no sign of the gun, but Elliot’s hands hang down below his knees, impossible to make out in the dark.

“What now?”

Elliot’s lip twitches, but he doesn’t reply.

“You didn’t need that display with the gun to get me here,” Tyrell says, leaning his head back and unfastening his seatbelt.

“You didn’t need those gloves either, back in my apartment.” Shrugging and sliding over to the middle backseat, Elliot tells him, “But you wanted it, just like I did. The illusion of power.”

Tyrell hums and on a whim, asks, “Why me, Elliot?”

Probably following Tyrell’s previous example, Elliot doesn’t respond. He shuffles closer and leans forward so that his chin grazes the curved edge of Tyrell’s seat. His eyelids look smooth, hooded. Tyrell hardly manages to suck in a startled breath before there’s a hand on his face and myriad shapes, sensations blocking his airway. Chapped lips smear Tyrell’s mouth. A malleable nose blurs itself into his cheek.

Elliot pulls back and bites him, smirking, drawling, “What do you mean, why you?”

But Tyrell is far less complex than he once liked to think he was. Elliot’s tongue easing into his mouth stops his words, confuses the parts of his brain where the building blocks of language are first fathomed. 

The slow heat of their mouths together, opening and closing in tandem, dissipates. Elliot pulls away, inches to the left so that he disappears completely behind Tyrell’s seat, and Tyrell, accustomed to bending and fraying beneath pressure, bends beneath Elliot. Frays.

They’re impatient. Elliot pops open the seams and buttons on Tyrell’s expensive shirt while he’s stripping him naked. Marks up Tyrell’s throat with his teeth and his lips. Apologizes for none of it, though not for knowing that Tyrell doesn’t want or need his remorse. It goes deeper than claiming, yet it’s nothing so personal as possession. Tyrell’s ruined. Elliot breaks him open from the inside out simply because he can.

And it’s good that way. It’s so unbelievably good to have nothing and everything and to be weighed down by none of it. The only weight that touches him is the five-pointed crescent that Elliot’s fingernails leave imprinted along his collar bones, his scalp, his hips. It’s good that way. It’s good.

“You like me like this,” Elliot rasps, unhurried, into Tyrell’s ear. “I’m better like this.”

Tyrell claws at Elliot’s shoulder blades, needing the pressure so that his hands won’t tremble like the rest of him. His hair falls into his eyes and he blinks as Elliot’s palm drops anchor over his windpipe. The leather seats stick to his back and pull at his skin painfully where he writhes into Elliot, away from him, into him, away from him. Tyrell remembers how Sharon’s legs flailed, how her body spasmed in the throes of suffocation. His vision spots and then he’s keenly aware of Elliot inside him, of Elliot above him, and all he can do is gasp tremulously through his orgasm. Gasp and slam his eyes closed while his body pulls taut to the point of snapping.

Elliot ruts into him like a beast, after, and Tyrell likes that, too. He likes this feeling, this plundering.

It is a fine thing. Like uncoiling the muscles bit by bit and unstacking the skeleton until all that remains is quivering, hungry flesh. Resistance and propriety cast aside for pleasure, for satiety. 

“We could’ve fucked in the backseat at Coney Island,” Tyrell manages when he can talk again.

“I didn’t want to fuck you at Coney Island.”

Elliot sits up and pulls on his shirt, stares Tyrell down as if this has all been some hilarious spectacle to him, another inside joke. His private smile tempts and dares Tyrell. This must be the fate of the moth, cursed to flutter nearer and nearer to the flame that kills it.

“This place, it’s on the way,” Elliot muses, speaking through Tyrell’s contemplative silence. “Plus, it’s a shithole, but you let me fuck you anyway. Maybe even because it’s a shithole.”

“ _Dra åt helvete_ ,” Tyrell mumbles, moving to sit up, still shaking in a few unfortunate places.

“You can call me an asshole in English, man, it makes no difference. You like me like this.”

“It matters to you that I do.” Defiance, mutinous fury. Tyrell can bend and strain and combust for Elliot, but he can’t let himself be obliterated. He won’t accept it. “Deny it.”

Elliot’s eyes are huge and glisten in the slanted moonlight that filters in from outside. Tyrell tracks it to the source: a shattered window not out of place in a decrepit warehouse. In this shithole where Elliot fucked him and tore into his clothes and his skin and his hair to hurt him, to make him feel good, to humiliate him, to praise him. Tyrell doesn’t know. He’s not sure Elliot knows, anymore.

“Makes you easier to control,” Elliot says, and this, in Tyrell’s mind, is not a denial so much as it is a deflection.

“More illusions of power, Elliot?”

Tyrell bites his lip to conceal his vicious smile at the sullen silence this retort earns him. He’s naked and Elliot’s half-dressed and they’re filthy with their craft, with each other. The impressions of Elliot’s teeth and the bruises from his mouth litter Tyrell’s skin. And for his part, Elliot smells like him. He smells crisp like the plush leather seats of Tyrell’s car and musky with the balmy essence Tyrell’s left all over him—an aroma measured in strokes of his tongue, sticky clasps of his hands to Elliot’s elbows, the scruff of his neck, his ass. Elliot smells like they fucked hard and fast and like it was loud, which they did; which it was.

Some long minutes later, when he’s dressed, Tyrell says, “You’re wrong, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? How?”

“I don’t like you like this,” Tyrell says in a simpering, breathy little sigh just before climbing back into the front seat. “But I find sex can be so illuminating, wouldn’t you agree?”

He starts the car, waits to hear Elliot’s quiet, incredulous scoff, and pulls back out onto the street.

“Tell me where to go, Elliot.”

There’s a beat and then a soft chuckle. “Okay, Tyrell. I’ll tell you where to go.”

Tyrell isn’t afraid. Fear wouldn’t ward him from what Elliot is, from what he can be.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Dra åt helvete_ \- Fuck off.
> 
>  
> 
> *Let me know if you speak Swedish and that's not the best translation.  
> **Also hey! My first tyrelliot fic! Is it terrible? Maybe! It's also unbeta'd because I suck. Haha but I had fun even if it's shitty, so who cares, man. I'm a trashcan. *3*


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